JUSTIN GERARD

Justin Gerard is falling off a roof. He’s on a job with this big Micronesian guy who looks like Maui from Moana. They’re fixing the peak of a gable roof three stories up. Justin’s taken a wrong step: he’s put his foot down on a roof shingle that’s been warmed by the morning sun. The thing about roof shingles is they’re grippy when cool, but slippery when warm. Justin’s slipping down the roof and tumbling over the edge, and now it’s a straight drop onto solid concrete. He’s got just enough time to think: “Well, this is it for me. We had a good run.”

Justin shouldn’t be on a roof. He quit a few months back, partly because his boss set him on fire with a blowtorch, but mainly because he’d believed he was about to hit the big time as an artist. He had received a commission to illustrate a book, and the money was good enough to buy himself a “real car.” Justin drove his 1995 Nissan Pathfinder to his boss’s office, and, just like a movie, told